


Straight to Hell

by gross_batpanda



Series: Chicagoland [1]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anonymous Sex, Chicago (City), Gross, Id Fic, M/M, Porn Watching, Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gross_batpanda/pseuds/gross_batpanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover porn nobody asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight to Hell

The theater has gone downhill, George thinks, since they’ve tried to clean up their act. Yeah, the second floor is still there, and all its attendant gear and grossness, but it’s a scene. George prefers to avoid scenes, even the scene, which he’s been in long enough to see things come full circle. Personalities, people. They repeat themselves. There’s always some loudmouth asshole who comes from money and thinks that’s how respect is doled out here; a no-talent shitshow who wants you to listen to his demo; a girl who could, he supposes, be pretty if she’d ever fucking shut up for two seconds; scrawny intellectuals who will grow out of it; the boneheaded ones who are really fist-wielding jocks in punk drag; and always, always the new kid.

It’s not everyone that gets his attention. Nine times out of ten, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they don’t fucking deserve it. Young and cute has never been sufficient to hold his interest, truthfully. Young and cute you can get in the scene, though it comes covered in body glitter and sporting a pair of strap-on butterfly wings. Boystown is right there, after all. No, what George likes is someone who either looks like they’ve come out damaged, wrong somehow from the get-go, or at the very least one he can do some hurt to. But he likes them best when they’re good -- B grades, curfews, average performance in varsity sport in their pasts -- with the merest hint of teenage rebellion. A flickering flame he can coax into a bright, shining need to please.

At present, he’s being joined by a skinny kid with black hair sweeping down across his shoulders. He looks vaguely familiar, but then again, so does pretty much everyone at this stage in his life. There’s only so many faces you can see before they all start to seem permutations of one another. This one reminds him a bit of a kid he knew out west, during an ill-fated sojourn in L.A. during the eighties. He’s got the same overheated look about him, for one, the manic glimmer around the eyes. The kid settles down one seat over from George and slouching in his seat, hands shoved into the front pocket of his Public Enemy hoodie. He splays his legs wider than the seat width and focuses.

It’s not an act, so far as he can make out. He’s perfectly comfortable there, staring at the screen. His face is implacable, save for the time the guy on screen yelps in apparent pain. Then he snorts a choked little laugh and says, under his breath, “Please.” Far too streetwise to be suburban, this one. Maybe a gutter rat from the west side. Homeless, even. New in town. George lifts his hips and retrieves his Luckies from the front pocket of his jeans. “What,” the kid says, in a stagey whisper audible over the cheezy synth music, “I don’t get one?”

With his left hand George offers him the pack. Lights it too, like a proper fucking gentleman.

He asks, “How’d you get in here?” although he really doesn’t want to know the answer. The establishment’s supposed to be 21 and up, ever since the last raid a few months back, but the ages have a habit of trending steadily downward for a few months, and then they get busted again. The place gets okay, the boys are prettier and excited to try him on, and then the cops show up. Money changes hands, vague promises to wait longer the next time. The pretty ones are scared off, the seasoned ones stick around. Yet another thing that comes in cycles.

The kid flicks some ash disdainfully on the ground. His upper lip curls as he looks at the floor. God only knows what’s down there, or the last time this place was cleaned. “I’m legal,” he says. Bringing the filter to his lips he continues, “After a manner of speaking.”

“Don’t tell me,” George says, “I don’t want to know.”

“Exactly,” he retorts, “you look like someone who believes hardcore in plausible deniability.” With that pronouncement out of the way, the kid’s hand spiderwalks up George’s leg and over to his crotch. He’s still perched one seat away, what passes for the minimum distance between partners in a fine establishment such as this one. George widens his own legs and mimics the slouch, hunching his shoulders over as if that will create sufficient privacy. Kid doesn’t give the impression that he cares all that much. It’s pretty dead for a Thursday afternoon. Maybe a dozen men, ranged across the hard wooden seats, aroused, bored, jerking off, killing time.

The last half hour has seen his dick firm up as he watches the action, so whatshisname finds it pleasantly stiff when he touches. He knows what he’s doing but it’s languid, unhurried. George was pretty close to whipping it out anyways, before he showed up, and he’s ready to unzip. The kid seems to be way too casual for George’s liking, and so he admonishes, “Sure, take your sweet time,” as the kid fondles the hard ridge through his jeans. The fabric is almost too much weight as it presses against the heavy line of his cock. He shifts, and his boxers chafe against the head.

The kid turns to look at him, with dark eyes that have seen some shit, and says, “I like feeling up your cock through your pants.” Here he squeezes the knuckles of his first two fingers against the notch that separates the head from the shaft. A confident move, executed perfectly. George’s legs open more, drawing the denim tight, the seam at the crotch pressing painfully against his testicles.

“Gosh,” he says with a satisfied smirk, like he hasn’t been all up in George’s crotch for ten minutes. “Your dick is really hard.”

George’s head sinks lower. “Put your fucking mouth on it then,” he hisses, out of the corner of his mouth. “Isn’t that what you’re here for? Can’t be the conversation.”

A man a few rows ahead turns around and, from what he can tell in the dim haze, glares at them. George draws his attention back to the screen, where someone -- not him, emphatically _not_ him -- is receiving an extremely enthusiastic blowjob from a blond in a sailor suit. It’s too cutesy for him -- roleplay’s not his thing -- but that’s his brain talking. His dick is rock-hard, as the kid rubs way underneath him, sending his balls cascading against the fabric with every stroke. Clearly he’s done this before, certainly more than once.

“Impatient,” hoodie chides, but he undoes the button without so much as glancing over. That provides a small relief from the relentless pressure. His cock unfurls against the denim, tugging the zipper a few notches down as it goes. He's actually grabbed onto the armrests and is using them to hold himself back. On screen, the navy commander in dress blues is grunting with his cock in the other man’s mouth. The forearm between his own legs grows insistent, and it skims the left side of his shaft, bearing down over and over again until he can hardly stand it.

“What’s the hold-up?” he groans out, and the kid shoots him a lopsided grin. “It’s fun to make you wait for it, is all.”

“Fuck you,” he chides, but without any heat. The heat is all pooled in his stomach, the base around his dick, chafed and swollen from being pawed at. Nimble fingers work his zip down, and so his cock comes out in all its rigid fullness. It points straight up at the ceiling, where the chandeliers from a former bygone era, when this was still an art house, dangle.

“Nice,” says the boy, and grips him delicately, low down on the shaft with two light fingers and his thumb. With a pleased hum he gives the base of George’s cock a little wiggle; the movement shakes loose a fat bead of moisture from the tip which rolls, with aching slowness, over the sensitive head. He shifts in his seat then so that he is facing George. With his other hand he presses the very tip of his thumb to the slit, slides it down to catch the wetness, and then pulls it away. It goes straight to his mouth without so much as a single sign of hesitation.

“Huh,” he says, and tilts his head owlishly. His lips part and George prepares himself for that first push, delicious and impossible to replicate ever again. But his parted lips remain where they are. Instead he begins to loosely stroke the shaft, his fingers barely grazing the base of the flared head. Each little tap against it is excruciating. George wants to grab his hand, close his own big one around it and get him moving. Instead he settles for shifting again, his buttocks sliding down against the slippery wood.

This goes on long enough for the scene to change over onscreen. Only the change in color gives it away. One shitty soundtrack replaced with another. George can’t be bothered to look up from the show he’s got going on in his lap. Up and down, up and down, he strokes, narrowly avoiding touching anything but the shaft until it’s practically purple in the dim light. Every twelve strokes or so he’ll swipe his thumb over the slit and get himself some traction that way. George has never shivered from a wet dick before, but he’s getting close to it.

The pressure from his fingers is deceptively light, enough to make itself felt. It is only when George groans, finally, loud and ringing in the sticky quiet surrounding them, does the kid lean sideways and seal his lips around the head.

“Goddamn it,” he bites off, into the darkness. His hand closes atop a shoulder, bony beneath the worn cotton fabric. “Oh, fuck.”

The hot seal breaks with a slurp. Wetness spills down as the kid moves away, replaces his mouth with his hand, his pace back to that same torturous crawl. A few times he grasps the shaft and thumbs at the head, squeezing until the blood rushes in. 

George hasn't worn a cockring in years, but he remembers the sensation. His balls packed up tight, the head of his dick dark and blood-filled. It flexed and flexed but his orgasm remained shimmering, just out of reach, and then would recede again. He wants to grab this kid by the hair, fuck his face and have done with it, but he can't seem to so much as lift a finger. Instead he rubs his thumb just below the kid’s ear, offers some needless praise and reassurance. “Take it, yes, take it all.”

The kid hums. It travels down to his balls, up his ass, into his guts. "Jesus," George says, as his thigh is pinned down with a forearm. Trapped like this he can't thrust, but it doesn't matter now. It's coming, it's happening. With that loose wet mouth sealed around the head, the kid sucks up everything George has to give, tongue lapping at the underside as he shoots off. 

When the kid sits up his eyes are bright and gleaming. His hair is frizzed out around his flushed temples like a halo. George cannot help it, he smiles at the sight. And then the kid purses his lips and spits out George's load onto the floor. 

"The fuck?" he asks, scowling at the spot. "That's gross." 

The kid rubs a finger across his teeth and shrugs. "Sorry, man," he says, sounding every inch a jaded man twice his age. "But I just fucking met you." 

George shakes his head, then looks down in wonder and amazement as his cigarettes are filched from his front pocket. The kid removes four of them and puts them carefully in the front pocket of his hoodie, then sticks one of the three remaining ones in his mouth, lights it. The pack with its paltry two cigarettes is handed back to George without a word. 

Bemused, he draws out one for himself and takes the lighter back as well. 

"You own that place off Milwaukee?" asks the kid, when the scene changes over yet again. 

"That's me," George answers, and looks over with suspicion. "Why?" 

Kid shrugs and makes to get up. "I might drop by sometime, is all." And then with a wink and a shimmy he's shoved off the grimy seat and headed for the aisle. George watches him go with dry interest. Clearly new around here. Could be interesting. Could be useful. 


End file.
